“You were scared,” he said. “So was he.”
Margaret looked at Frank.
“He wasn’t scared for himself.”
Frank tapped one finger against the frame.
Jonah sat down across from them while his team waited for another assignment.
“What was his name?” he asked.
Frank touched the baby’s photograph.
Margaret’s eyes filled.
“Samuel.”
The dates beneath the image had told Jonah how short the life was. They had not told him what five months could contain.
Margaret did.
Samuel had been born small and loud. Frank, home on leave, had been terrified to hold him. The blue blanket came from Frank’s mother, who stitched the corner by hand because the store-bought binding kept unraveling. Samuel slept badly unless the edge rested against his cheek.
He became sick before Frank returned to his unit. The illness moved quickly. Frank came home again for a funeral instead of the future he had imagined.
“We never had another child,” Margaret said.
Frank’s hand tightened around the frame.
Jonah understood then why the medal case had failed. The medals represented a part of Frank’s life that other people already knew how to honor. Samuel existed in quieter objects, the kind a rescuer might reasonably leave behind because nobody could see their rank from the doorway.
“The medals can be replaced on paper,” Margaret said. “Frank always says that.”
Frank gave her a look.
“Well, you do.”
He pointed at the blanket.
“That can’t,” she finished.
Jonah’s radio called him back outside.
He stood.
Frank reached for his sleeve.
The old man’s speech came slowly. His mouth worked around each sound.
“Thank… you.”
Jonah crouched so Frank would not have to strain.
“You showed me where.”
Frank shook his head and tried again.
“Waited.”
